Night almost over. Red sap rises from black soil,
blooms and picks the locks among the stars.
Mars troubles the rabbit’s eye.
A wheel comes off. Red rolls it down
dawn’s road, slips into a roadkill’s
coat of dust. Feels like silk.
Watchdogs wake. New teeth assume
their places by the palace gate.
Red feels the eager tiger of his claim
and watches the doorman watch
the oilman’s daughter as she slides
across cool tiles and takes
the elevator up. Red sweats
beneath the operator’s suit and feels
how backgammon smooth
the one red button on a golden panel is.
Red revels in alarm. The sun goes down.
The red-beaked finch keeps a disco beat
inside its breast. Red feels the cut
steak drip, the savage smoking
of the grill, feels almost golden behind bars
of charred flesh. New teeth assume
thick sap. Night throbbing in the white
limousine red gets in, red joins
the conga line of brakelights winking
mile on mile, wheels a disco to the boys.
The oilman’s daughter oozes on the floor.